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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556954">in case you don't live forever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/amatchforyourmadness/pseuds/amatchforyourmadness'>amatchforyourmadness</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>what two sides of a coin mean to one another [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Magic Ban Lifted (Merlin), Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:13:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/amatchforyourmadness/pseuds/amatchforyourmadness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin will live forever, they know that to be a fact.<br/>Arthur, however, will not.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gwen &amp; Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen &amp; Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon, Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>what two sides of a coin mean to one another [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in case you don't live forever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/HicSuntDracones/gifts">HicSuntDracones</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“Life is a turbulent journey,<br/>fraught with confusion,<br/>heartbreak, and inconvenience.</p><p>This  f̶̶a̶̶n̶ ̶f̶̶i̶̶c̶ ̶ book will not help.”</p><p>— Lemony Snicket</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.”</p><p>        — Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For Merlin —</p><p>       I would much prefer it<br/>if you would keep alive and well.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur's breath got stuck in his throat as he watched Merlin blink, even if it likely did nothing for the blurriness of his sight, nor did it bother the specks of black that ought to darkening what little he could make out. There was so much blood. He mumbled something about his head being light and feeling dizzy, sick even, and maybe he was floating on a lake, because he also felt cold and like he could sink under at any moment. He blinked once again and this time his eyes almost stay closed for good, so Arthur willed himself into breathing again and shook him, forgetting about the matter of gentleness and muttering apologies as the warlock took a sharp, pained breath.</p><p>The pain does seem to give him some clarity and the clarity certainly looks like it aids his memory, if his widened eyes and the way his weak, blood-stained fingers grip his shirt are anything to go by: the beast, pushing Arthur out of the way, vanquishing the thing with magic at plain sight of everyone but not before poisoned claws cut open gashes down his torax. How he had fell to the ground, he and the beast, and the time between bellowing the words and the vanquishing of the creature, the claws has their time to sink past skin and the poison to make it's way to his bloodstream. His terrified eyes turn to Arthur's face, and he gives him a somber nod of confirmation. A thousand and one factors and terms and technicalities com to his mind, all she Gaius' dutiful teachings and his many years of experience, but he cannot allow himself to expand on that or else he will worry, and if he worries he'll panic, and panic leads to hyperventilation and tachycardia and with his chest oozing blood and his laboured, gurgling breaths, it seems to be the last thing he needs. He's had so many close calls before, but now there's the sneaking suspicion and the growing dread that he might be dying for good this time around. </p><p>Above him, his own face is contorted in the frantic worry Merlin cannot allow himself, and he can see the moment the man beneath him understands he lies not against the ground, but against Arthur's arms, cradled carefully against his chest, that he was probably the one who shook him awake. There's a thousand reassurances he must wish he could speak to him, to calm him and to take the tenseness off his shoulders; Arthur knows this only because he knows Merlin, knows the shift to his features to be the telltale signs of incoming wisdom or kind words in the face of his greatest struggles, but all that leaves his mouth is a wet sound that has blood pooling from the side of his lips where there should only have been his King's name, spoken in reverence and everlasting affection.</p><p>The sound that leaves his lips in turn isn't something entirely human, and the King holds him closer to his chest and raises his face to scream at Leon and Percival to go get help, to fetch Gaius. If they ride the horses halfway to death, Camelot is only half a day away and if he could just keep Merlin breathing until sunrise, the physician could make it and could save him. His eyes rose to the sky, and he curses himself for never bothering to learn the old gods the druids worship, that rule his life as well as Merlin's, because now he can only plead with no real certainty that he's been heard. So he pleads for Merlin's life just as the warlock's fingers lose the strength to hold onto his chainmail and fall over his own mangled chest.</p><p>He knows he's in no place to demand things of the gods, but as a man about to lose his beloved, he sure has the right to resent them.</p><p>“I will not be condemned to a life without you.” Arthur insists, and his watery eyes do nothing to quell the burning fire behind his gaze, nor the determination that has him pulling his hunting dagger from it's sheath, gripping the hilt tighter than Merlin can crumple his shirt in panic, and pressing the blade to his skin until it cuts pale skin every so slightly that red beads sprout along the light cut, Arthur's blood trails down to his collarbone and Merlin looks like he's crying, like he wants to wrap his hands around the knife and pull it away, to hold his palm over his small injury and will it to heal, to scream at the knights around them to do something. His mouth moves a thousand of times, trying to form the words 'no' and 'please', but Arthur doesn't allow the sight to move him, shaking his head and swallowing despite the cold edge of the blade on his throat. “Death takes the both of us or it takes none of us.”</p><p>Merlin closes his eyes defeatedly, bracing himself to losing and to being lost as his breaths quieten with every struggling rise of his chest, and against his will he hears the small sorrowful pleas his prince offers to the night, and he hears the sound of grief Arthur bellows out just before his conscience seizes and his chest stills a last time.</p><p>It's something thick and overwhelming, he discovers, like drowning while standing on land and like trying to hold something that's bound to always slip from his fingers, and as if all hope there was to the world does down when a final breath leaves Merlin's lips. Arthur grieves and weeps and curses every knight that tries to approach them, curses Gwaine who cries and reaches for Merlin, curses Elyan who lies a hand to his shoulder, curses the gods whom he begged to and pulls the mangled body closer to his chest, almost forgetting the knife until he almost cuts Merlin with it in his despair. He knows what grief made of his father; losing his mother turned him into a bitter, hateful person, and he understands now how it must have been to live without a heart for so long. He refuses to become like Uther, he refused to be anything but the golden king his warlock would have wanted of him and, just like that, it's decided. Arthur sucks in a breath and thigtens once more his fingers around the hunting knife, pays no heed to the screams of panic of the knights and raises his blade to his neck and when he's about to make due on his word of refusing to live in a world where Merlin isn't there too, a pale hand grips at his wrist tight as anything, keeping him from going through with it and Merlin draws in a deep, gurgling breath.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He wraps his cape around Merlin — <em> breathing, alive, scared, probably traumatised, trembling Merlin </em> — and whispers all the reasurances he can think of, never keeping his hands off of him for long, in fear Merlin would be snatched away from him, that his second chance is just a mean-spirited trick of the goddess Morgana serves as Priestess to. Arthur tries to tell her, with his heart and with his mind once his lips are reserved to ease the pain from the brunette's features, that it wasn't this man's fault, that his lover was not to be blamed. She could rain a thousand of curses upon him as long as she left Merlin out of it. <em> Not him </em> , he thinks rubbing some warmth along his arms as he asks for Elyan to give him one of the blankets, <em> not him </em> , he thinks when the dark haired head hangs limply from in-between his shoulders, <em> not him </em>, he thinks as his finger curl gently under Merlin's chin and raise his face again to inspect his eyes that are open if not all conscious. </p><p>“Come on, you idiot, don't die on me twice at the same night.” Arthur mutters, and he sounds more annoyed than he truly is, but at least he doesn't sound as overwhelmingly concerned as he feels.</p><p>“'M sorry, 'm sorry." He slurs in return, hooded eyes and feverish skin and adam's apple bobbing up and down as he fights to breathe, fights to speak. The words "Wanted to tell you.” rasp out of his throat, rough and worn and barely above a whisper, and he frowns as his eyes close and he tries to shake his head. "But couldn't.” It drains him, and soon enough his head drops forward weakly and it's only Arthur's hand that stops his chin from hitting his chest again as he struggles through shallow breaths and an unwilling tongue. “I used it for you, only for you. Keep you safe.”</p><p>Arthur brows furrow as he takes the blanket Elyan offers, too thin and not enough to warm him, wraps it around his shoulders and crosses it over his chest like a worried wife and it dawns on him. The golden glow to Merlin's eyes, the outstretched palm and the words that rang of power and thunder, the way the beast had screeched and evaporated into air even when Merlin has been knocked into the earth by it's claws, fragile and dying. Merlin has <em> magic </em>, and it makes so much sense now he can only feel as stupid as he has called him a thousand and one times before. He wants to scream at him, maybe shake him, but he knows it will only lead him to be either terrified or in pain and he doesn't want him to be either when he looks like he might whither like a flower at any moment now. This brave, selfless, loyal, stupid man, who had followed him into a thousand battles and walked out unscathed had magic, and he had been using it in Arthur's behalf even though it could get him killed, would most likely get him killed, even though he had seen Arthur stand by in executions and murder an unicorn and a dragon and knew he had slaughtered druids and had no idea if he would spare him and still he trusted him enough to stay.</p><p>“Not the pyre.” He asks in a wheezing breath, eyes fluttering again and Arthur knows sleep will claim him again soon. “I'll take any sentence… Just not the pyre, please.”</p><p>Arthur's own breath hitches at this and there's a sharp tug from under his ribs that spreads like wildfire painfully. So maybe he hadn't trusted him after all, he tells himself, pressing his lips into a thin line and blinking away the sting of his eyes as horses are saddled and camp is dismounted as fast as possible to get them back towards home. Does he think he rides with this desperation to tie him to a pole and light the blaze that would take him from this world? Had he forgotten that only his vice grip had stopped Arthur from dragging his blade through his own neck and following into death? He tries to put himself in his shoes, quietens his hurt and his grief to understand his fear. All of his friends (and if not all, at least most) now know he's a sorcerer, a magic user and therefore a criminal to Camelot. They have seen her King try to kill himself at the thought of his loss, and in fear one might think they would be convinced such an act to be sorcery, that they believe he has worked spells onto the king and is therefore dangerous, when in truth the knights had begun to fear an extremist response from the moment his breath had stopped because they knew Arthur, and to know Arthur was to know he loved Merlin as he had blood on his veins. He steals glances around, and though all of them are certainly perturbed by the events of this evening, it's hardly something that ought to be judged given how traumatic they have been. Elyan and Percival seem the most shaken, while Gwaine seems to have relinquished all pretense of letting his feelings be processed in name of getting all he can get packed done so as quickly as possible so they can ride to Gaius, to which Arthur couldn't be more grateful. Leon, however, watches Merlin as if he watched a particular wild animal that could not be trusted not to tear out his throat, and in this case, his King's; but he had been a knight under Uther, grew with his teachings drilled in his head, it was natural he was apprehensive, but he <em> knew </em> Merlin, they all did. None could fear Merlin here, none could hate him, none would beish him death nor harm.</p><p>“I have trusted you with my life and my heart a thousand times, Merlin. You never once took advantage of that.” He whispers gently and watches as he feebly tries to nod his agreement to the statements, as if it was another proof of loyalty, some confirmation; as if Arthur needed any more of that. His voice only grows softer, more earnest, tries to force his point through the thick school Merlin owns. “Now that you trust me with yours, do you think I would let you burn?”</p><p>Merlin gives him that look, in wonder and startled and hesitant, as if he was offered a gift freely that he does not feel worthy to have. He could curse Lancelot for instilling such a ridiculous sense of humbleness into his manservant through the friendship they had held, if only he didn't know that no matter how loudly he would demand day offs and raises and how cheekily he would tell him he didn't appreciate him enough, Merlin never expected anything and was profoundly startled whenever anyone would gift him anything. Arthur's eyes flicker between his face, the greediness only a man who knew years of yearning were not one-sided, hands hesitantly reaching towards Arthur's face, thin fingers blood-stained and shaking, but it does nothing to keep him from leaning forward, resting his cheek against his palm, eyes on his, a hand holding slipping over his, warming Merlin's cold one.</p><p>“You still love me?" The man asks, and this time Arthur knows it sounds like a whisper because Merlin meant it to be a whisper. His lips twist upwards and that familiar, impossible fondness takes over his chest.</p><p>“Am I still an ass?" He answers, voice equally hushed, and takes great joy to see Merlin snort, eyes crinkling with humour before a coughing fit takes over him, so violently Arthur had to steady him to keep him from fall against the ground as blood spilled from the sorcerer's lips into the ground. The wild creature inside his body that had been calmed by the small interaction they shared claws up his insides again, desperate and frightened and infecting him with both as he snaps his head back at the knights who stilled in their work to glance at them. “Is Llmarei ready?!”</p><p>“Yes, my Lord.” Elyan replies, readily and Gwaine makes quick work to take her reins and walk her closer to him as Arthur picks Merlin up in his arms bridal style just as the man's head tilts back, face against Arthur's neck, weak breaths sending gooseflesh down exposed skin.</p><p>“Cold.” Merlin whispers, shivering as Arthur had one winter when he fell into a lake when the ice gave away. “Too cold.”</p><p>“Sire, it's unwise for you to ride alone.” Leon intervenes, voice sober and tense, and he can see reason in his words but he shakes his head, he must denounce reason or else:</p><p>“He will die if I wait any longer.”</p><p>“He might die even if you make it in time, sire, is it worth it to risk your safety?”</p><p>Arthur sucks in a startled breath, as if his friend had struck his face, holds the man in his arm closer to his chest, taking half a step back, as if to keep him from Leon and feels all his knights turn their gazes upon his first knight then. Merlin feel so frail in his arms, so light, and even now the blood still seeps through the blue fabric of the blanket wrapped around him, a sure evidence that he has not healed from the gashes and that if help wasn't procured soon, he never would.</p><p>He thinks of him and Merlin, barely six days ago, laid side by side on his bed, while the brunette looked at the ceiling in wonder. When he moved to ask him what he was thinking about, he motioned for him to be silent, turning his face to confide him in a quiet voice 'i'm waiting for the sky to fall'. Arthur had only arched his brow then, unimpressed but amused either way, and asked whyever would the sky fall 'despite all these years of excellence in his work of keeping itself up' today of all days for. 'Haven't you heard?', he had replied, grinning, his eyes twinkling with mirth, 'King Arthur Pendragon was honest about his feelings this morning. Doom is sure to follow, and we must all be prep— <em> mphm </em>!'.</p><p>It had been good to shut him with a kiss then, it was heaven to listen to his easy delighted laughter as they tangled around themselves and amidst the blankets once again.</p><p>The sky had not fallen, but tragedy has struck, and upon Merlin of all people. Loyal and cheeky and <em> bleeding </em> Merlin, and Leon <em> dared </em> to suggest <em> he </em> wasn't worth risking riding a beat ahead of them to save. </p><p>"Either way, he'd die having saved all of our lives. Including <em> yours </em>.” Arthur spits out, and be sounds vicious for he feels vicious, and his hands must tighten their hold on him a little too much or maybe it's the pain or his need to stop confrontations, but Merlin let's out a miserable moan and Arthur promptly shifts him into a more comfortable position. “So is this the gratitude you'd extend a friend for their sacrifice, Sir Leon?"</p><p>They stare for barely a moment before Leon's eyes lower to Merlin, flashing with compassion, and then lower to the floor and his face contorts in something alike shame, but not enough to make Arthur forgive him.</p><p>“I will ride ahead.” He declares loudly, to the others and to Leon, turning his back in his oldest knight before the hurt of betrayal and righteous rage stall his efforts to save Merlin any longer than they ought to, beckoning the others with a nod to the white mare. “Help me get him on her back. And fetch me another blanket.”</p><p>None of the others hesitate on helping him and that's almost enough to take the edge of Leon's reaction and Merlin's pleas for a more merciful death than the pyre. Almost, but not enough. So he makes quick work of mounting his mare, and pulls Merlin up as careful as possible when Gwaine offers the sleeping man to him, wraps them both in yet another thin blanket Percival gives him, gripping it around them in fistfuls along with Llmarei's reins, arms holding his lean body in place so he won't fall off, and offering them all a short nod before spurring his mare into a quick gallop.</p><p>A week ago, Arthur had gathered the courage to tell him that Merlin that he loved him. It was long overdue, really, but it was still a nerve wracking experience to rival the first time he had been in battle, how the battle itself has not unsettled him as much as the long and somber night before had. The waiting had been excruciating, laid back on his bed, eyes open and trailed at the top of his tent, unable to sleep as his breathing and heartbeat filled the quiet of pre-slaughter, sneaking furtive glances to the armour already polished and ready and in waiting, and his sword, sharp enough to cut a man, to <em> kill </em> a man, and before next nightfall the steel would have the first taste of blood.</p><p>Arthur had made an effort to be romantic, it was the least he could do, after all the many encounters he had bullied Merlin into getting ready in order to court Gwen; but how does one go about to <em> courting Merlin </em>of all people? He was already the closest person to him, his best friend, his confident and, gods help him, apparently his other half now, so the bar was raised impossibly higher than it had ever been. Yet, the peculiarity of their relationship had never been less convenient than now, for no matter how fond and close they had grown they had become, they had lived these long years in the same spirit of their first meeting: at each other's throats. Merlin was used to pillows to his face, to ducking from things thrown at his head by the morning, to yelling, to a healthy fear of spoons, to accusations that varied from being useless to an idiot to a buffoon. Merlin was not used, however, to kindnesses, raises, compliments, day offs, appreciation, attention, affection, gifts or anything remotely like what romance would suggest one would demand of someone trying to court another. He could remember with terrifying vividness his reaction upon being gifted new boots, sturdy and of a better material than he could afford, to replace the ones who were so worn and filled with holes and thin it was the same as walking barefoot; how he had looked at the gift dubiously, then at Arthur and placed a hand to his forehead and asked 'do you feel alright, sire?'</p><p>He would have tore his hair out eventually, he was sure, if Gwaine of all people had not snuck a piece of advise his way over sparring. 'Stop treating him like a damsel', he has teased, between trading blows and stepping away from Arthur's ever more furious reach, 'Merlin might talk a lot, but he would rather spend his month's pay on something to someone he cared than for himself. How do you think Gaius always has new pots and the freshest meat, but Merlin kept three years the same pair of boots?'. He had a point, Arthur agreed in his mind, right before knocking the man onto his ass and carrying about training with a deaf ear to his whining. Next morning, however, saw Gwaine with a day off to recover, Gaius with new robes, Guinevere with fresh flowers about her rooms, the cook that always sneaked Merlin food with a raise, the guards about the castle whom Merlin would constantly count on to pretend not to see him leave the dungeons early with a higher station and the servants' common room have the roof fixed and the furniture replaced with studier one.</p><p>‘Okay, what is happening?’, he had asked, storming into Arthur's rooms as if he owned them (and in Arthur's mind, he could if he really wanted to), accusation written all over his eyes and general confusion to his demeanor.</p><p>‘I'm sure I don't know whatever you mean, Merlin.' Had been his reply, and he should have known that would have been another red flag, because not only had he been polite<em> , </em>not commented at his breach of protocol but he had regarded him fondly, spoken his name with affection rather than mockery.</p><p>‘There it is!’ The man accusers instead, pointing a finger at him and waving it like his face holds some evidence to prove a point. Arthur raises a brow in a way he knows is as poor of an imitation of Gaius as there has ever been, refrains from saying that such an action is treason, because Merlin must commit at least four acts of treason before breakfast and lets him rant. ‘Something's been off with you for weeks now! You've been considerate, and kind and weirdly nice and you haven't thrown a vase at me in forever!’ If he was any more hopeful at his capacity to perceive affection, Arthur would be readying himself to bear an accusation that he cares about him, to which he would promptly admit and wax some poetry he had spent the last few nights at the library working on. Instead, because he is not hopeful and Merlin's daft as wood, his servant starts enumerating yet other offended on his finger, totally ignoring his King. ‘You gave me a raise, day offs, new boots, and now everyone I like is either being graced with new clothes, new stations, new income or just with new things and I don't get what you're doing!’</p><p>'What is wrong with that?’, he tries, ‘I'm King, I can afford to grant my subjects rewards.’</p><p>‘But you don't do that! At least, not like this! You're a great king but you're being just too generous to this be a normal thing!'</p><p>‘I can't give you things! I can't give people you like things!' He said, gesturing exasperatedly at the desk in-between them as if the poor collection of wood and nails would see his point and give him some favour before groaning, tilting his head back. "You make courting you very difficult, Merlin!'</p><p>'I make what?'</p><p>There had been better ways to break this out to him, but he should have known better than to think his confession was going to be anything else than chaotic given their relationship as far, because the way he has actually declared his undying love for him, how much he had adored him, how dear he was to him, how he wanted to keep him close for the rest of time was:</p><p>'Gods be dammed Merlin, could you tell me what is the best way to tell you that I love you? Because I'm becoming highly stressed out trying to figure you out!' </p><p>Silence had hung above them, and Merlin had not looked any less shocked when he finally worked the next words out.</p><p>'Well, you could always kiss me, I suppose. Given that I loved you back.'</p><p>War drums had nothing on his heart. Proposing hadn't been so hard, marrying hadn't either. Had Merlin's eyes always been that blue? Was his lips as soft as he imagined? When had he sidestepped the table, when had he walked towards him? How had he come to be in front of Merlin, a breath away from his face?</p><p>'And do you?'</p><p>‘I don't know’, he had said, looking very much like he did know, lips pulling into a teasing grin, ‘Are you still an ass?’</p><p>And that has been all the answer he needed.</p><p>A week ago, he had kissed him for the first time. The way he had smiled, the joy to his eyes, the press of his lips to his — <em>lover's</em> <em>high</em> — had been enough to chase the guilt of proclaiming his love to another while he has a Queen, and yet she had been the one to encourage him to tell Merlin how he felt. It had been awkward and infinitely tricky, for he and Gwen, to work out that they could be not in love and still love each other. Bards had made love seem so simple, so true and evident, and Arthur has believed in the songs and tales and the retellings of his father's memories of his mother, but love was not simple and it wasn't clear, and it could spread in so many ways, take so many forms, encircle so many people to his chest. He loved Guinevere, he always would, and he would never regret marrying her or crowning her Queen, but he <em>loved</em> Merlin in the way he knew the sky was blue and how to use a sword and that Llmarei liked apples and Gwen's favourite flowers were bluebells and that he needed air to breathe and that he wouldn't live in a world in which Merlin was taken from him.</p><p>Having Merlin in his arms like this, resting his own chin over his head familiarly as it rolls to rest against Arthur's chest, is intimate, but not as he would have had it. It's not an embrace, not a proper hug like the ones Merlin's so fond of and eternally cross about Arthur's aversion of them, it's not the way his arms had wrapped around his body, pulling him closer, fingers gripping his dark hair and holding him into place as he kissed him like a man on a mission: to steal his breath and to kiss him throughoutly until his lips were red and swollen and his cheeks were flushed and his heartbeat quicker and his breath erratic and then he would look up at him again, adoringly and defenseless, and in the dazed smirk he would give him there would the words 'i love you' hidden in plain sight.</p><p>The world is still dark around them when he hears in the distance the sound of knights following him towards Camelot, putting their best horses to proof though none are as fast as Llmarei, and nothing is as loud to him as his own heartbeat in his ears and nothing as important than the rise and fall of Merlin's chest as the dawn creeps over them.</p><p>He stops breathing no less than three times before they reach Camelot.</p><p>The horses won't ride fast enough.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He crosses the small town by the time families must be huddling together by the fire and pouring their own bowls of stew, sat side by side and complaining of the day's events until good humour would fall upon them once they had their stomachs full. Somewhere, in one or many of those houses, one person must have their lover laid against him, tiredly slipping into sleep in the comfort of strong arms, and under the light of the fireplace, the world would be warm and their lover, ethereal, and happiness would be not that of what poets spoke about and philosophers debated, but the press of a known body against theirs, and being content would be having a moment like that by the same fireplace every night they had to live.</p><p>From the back of his mare, clinging onto Merlin as he slipped into unconsciousness once more, feeling blood start to seep through yet another layer of cloth, a third one at that, and the dampness of the scarlet stain against the dry feel of the blue blankets, Arthur can not help but envy them, cannot help but think what would the goddess demand of him if he asked her to take the crown from him, and give him only Merlin on return, by a fireplace, in a room that smelled of rabbit stew and the perfumed herbs Merlin liked to burn, his face in the crook of his neck, warm and golden in the firelight, knowing he was Merlin's and Merlin was <em> his </em>.</p><p>Instead, what he knows is: Merlin's shivering, Merlin's cold, Merlin's has just begun breathing once again, Merlin's still dying, Merlin's his and he might lose him if he doesn't move faster. When he crosses the startled guards by the castle gates, his hands abandon Llmarei's reins in order to nestle the limp body into his arms and barely bothers to wait for her to slow into her gallop before swinging a leg across from her, landing heavily on his feet in a way that has his knees stinging with a sharp hurt, and he murmurs grateful words to his mare, wonderful and quick and marvelous, before he's running again, drawing deep lungfuls of air that feel wrong to take when Merlin can barely inflate his chest with a dozen of shallow ones.</p><p>“Open the door!" He barks (or maybe growls) out the order (or maybe it's a threat, but he can't care much not with Merlin in his arms and not when he's halfway dead) to the confused guards, night guards that never expect anything interesting to happen in their shifts and are not really used to doing their jobs, and they're frightened enough that they do so.</p><p>Gossip is what the backbone of any court is make off, rumours spread like wildfire and information passes from ear to ear so quick and seamlessly he doesn't even bother to keep track of it anymore, so he knows he won't be alone in his desperate wandering of the halls for much time. Soon the court, the nobles, advisors, young knights and even servants alike will want to see if the rumours are true, that the King rode through town holding his servant as if he could keep him from the grips of death and he knows, he <em> knows </em> , what unkind tongue will say, what venom his affections will be corrupted with, that his efforts to keep Merlin secret and safe from the cutthroat world he lives him will have been in vain and that what should be <em> Arthur's beloved </em> will be passed around as the <em> King's whore </em>, and he will have failed to keep Merlin from this, from the accusing glances and the belittling names like he has failed to keep him from the beast, from harm, from death.</p><p>Yet, for now Merlin is cradled against him like a damsel in distress and his breathing is so faint Arthur thinks it might stop a fourth time if he isn't quick enough, and he doesn't feel quick enough as he runs, towards help and from all forms of harm, and still— he's ahead of his knights, they have arrived and they trail after him, and he ignores the nobles in their nightclothes that part from the shadows of every hallway and every turn to pretend to greet him when they are harpies looking to catch a glimpse of Merlin, to tear already wounded skin to shreds, and only deigns to half-shut an explanation at his worries wife, the only one to properly catch up to him, to which he credits her genuine affections towards Merlin and him both alone, when her panicked voice asks 'is that Merlin?!' and suddenly they are all trailing behind him in the way through the small door to Gaius' chambers and he wants to order them all away, to demand he be left with Merlin alone, to scream at the top of his lungs that this man, strong and wilful and smart and loyal and wounded and <em> dying, </em>at his most vulnerable is for his eyes and conscience to take in alone.</p><p>So Arthur shields their sight of him with his own body, tells Gaius in hurried, worried sick breaths that Merlin is injured and watches him push papers and pots carelessly aside to make room so his apprentice, his son in all but words and blood, can be laid on his work desk to be inspected and treated. Arthur tries, he pulls at the depths of his being — thinks of the nursemaid who sang him songs when thunder scares him through storms when he was six, of the honey haired servant who would sneak him candy before dinner when he was eight, Lady Vivienne telling him and Morgana fairy tales so they would sleep when he was ten, of his first knight lessons when he was twelve, of Leon's easy friendship when he was fourteen, of laughing quietly with Morgana when he was sixteen, of meeting Merlin when he was eighteen, of marrying Gwen when he was slightly older than twenty, and of loving someone with his whole being now he's 23 — and when he thinks he thought of enough warm and care and gentleness, he lowers his beloved down and pulls his arms away, but as soon as he rests against Gaius' table and out of Arthur's hold, the fourth time comes around. His breathing stops, Gaius moves to take his pulse, the nobles whispers and his knights try to push past them into the room and, by his side, Gwen is nearly hysterical, calling Merlin's name, and Arthur cannot find in himself to care that there are dozens of eyes watching them. He bows over his manservant, hands pressing to his sides, trying to feel for breath, denial and apprehension boiling him alive from the inside out, because yes, his breath stopped before, but this was Camelot, this was Gaius's chambers, this was <em> safe, </em> this was where he was supposed to be well and heal and <em> not </em> die, <em> not </em> leave him.</p><p>This is the room where his broken arms were fixed, his scratches cured and where Merlin had been brought back to him after he retrieved the Mortaeus flower, this was the room where Merlin's stupidly, grander than life shows of loyalty were healed so he could be delivered back to him in the morning, with a youthful grin and breakfast and quick-witted words. This is the room that merely four days ago he pretended to be feeling a pull to his muscles so he would be allowed in when Gaius was away, only to steal Merlin's smiles with kisses, to press open mouthed lips to his pulse point, to hear the moaning sighs and the groaning and the keening, to feel his mean back arch against his chest and his bare chest against his palm, to follow the rhythm of his pleas, to hold his hand through it, to marvel at the adoration of his name as it left Merlin's lips time and time again, to spend himself on him and have him cry out a sense of belonging that only the two of them could share. This was a place where Merlin was whole and safe and filled with life and joy and was himself and was his and he was not allowed to <em> abandon him in here </em>.</p><p>“No, no, no, no— Merlin?” He calls, squeezing his shoulders gently, rubs warmth up and down his arms in the way that seemed to work during their ride here, and when his hands feel like they're burning as his eyes and Merlin's limbs feel warm enough he presses them to his neck, to his cheeks, coaxes heat back into his body, and hopes the heat will bait life back into him as it did the three times before. “Merlin, please.” Arthur tries again, and doesn't give a damn he sounds like he's begging to a servant when there are hundreds of nobles' eyes to watch, imprints some happiness to his voice and presses on. “We're in Camelot, we're with Gaius. He will heal you, you'll be okay, but he can't heal you if you die again, can he?”</p><p>As if a miracle or a response, Merlin's back arches painfully and he sucks in a breath, eyes opening wide and scared and confused and glazed even as they fall over Arthur's face. Arthur feels the same relief as the other times, overwhelming and rushing over him as if the overgrowing dread had bursted and all that's left is the love and the wonder and Merlin, in a way that has he smiling brightly at him, hands still in his cheek as he mutters:</p><p>“There you are.” A thumb carasseses along his left cheekbone affectionately, revels to see him lean into his touch and give a small pleased, sigh. “I knew you wouldn't leave me alone, I'm not that lucky."</p><p>It's enough of a show for now, or so the Court Physician thinks, for Gaius orders everyone to leave with a surprising authority and a voice so hard and unyielding that has threatens of worse forms of doom than an eyebrow that has noble, servant and knight alike fleeing from the implications of crossing the man's good favour; Gwen has to be bribed with the promise of a proper explanation as soon as Merlin's properly examined and looked after before agreeing to leaving, but not without a nervous exchange of words with Gaius himself and an affectionate press of her hand over his forehead, brushing away his hair and muttering demands for him to recover soon. To the old physician's credit, he does not bother to try and usher the king away when Arthur relents and only back his ground as my ba as taking a seat at the foot of the table, far enough to not to be in the way of his ministrations but close enough to hold vigil over Merlin.</p><p>"Gaius?" Merlin's small voice asks, eyes barely open and unfocused and sweating so much his skin glistens with it and the firelight doesn't remind him of his fantasies of a pleasant life at the lower town but seems to burn him like a pyre would. But he would never put him in a pyre, not Merlin, <em> never Merlin. </em> </p><p>“I'm here my boy.” Gaius replies, even and calmly and patient in a way Arthur knows be never is with Merlin. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>"Arthur?" He asks, not as if recognising the King is by him, sat on by his feet, hovering worriedly, but instead at Gaius. The old man merely smiles, sad and tired and exasperated and fond, and Arthur can't help but catch himself smiling at Merlin the same way, a hand leaning over his leg gently to provide comfort and to rule over the overwhelming love he feels for just one, small man. Through a world of pain, he still worries for him. Still thinks of him.</p><p>"He is safe and well. You saw to that. Rest, get your strength back."</p><p>For once in his life, he doesn't argue an instruction he's given, which should b proof enough something's wrong, but then Merlin falls asleep, easily and untroubled, as if Arthur's safety was all that had ever mattered to him in the world and the confirmation of it was like pulling a warm blanket over himself and allowing himself hard-earned rest and he looks so peaceful.</p><p>It warms his heart, but his mind doesn't allow down, it's still lrocesiny so much of this night, of this moment, of the conversation in the forest.</p><p>“You know about the magic then, I take it?” Arthur akss, in the conversational tone Gaius knows is how he accuses people diplomatically at court. There's no point at denying it.</p><p>“His mother sent him to me so I would teach him to control it.”</p><p>Since before he met him them, before be was 18. Alone and scared in Camelot, where being him was enough to sentence him to death and with only a man who would sooner speak of lizard's entrails and their medicinal properties than entertain the yearnings for honesty Arthur had heard in-between the words of Merlin's confession.</p><p>“You both will have a lot to explain later.” Arthur says, shooting Gaius a reproachful look and feels himself hard and regal for the first time on that night since inside Camelot's walls, firm but understanding, because he knows what's like to want to keep Merlin safe, to be terrified of what is appropriate to share and what must be yet another secret to tuck away under his ribs and collarbone.  “But for now, I just want him healed."</p><p>It's a promise Gaius doesn't need to make, for Arthur's just knows, as he knows the sky is blue, that water is wet and that he loves Merlin, but still the man says.</p><p>"I'll do my best."</p><p>Arthur vows silently to do the same. As Gaius searches not less than thirty of his books, always requiring the King repeats his description of the beast that had tore him apart, skimming through ingredients and potions, Arthur whispers gentle nonsenses at Merlin, warming him whenever another bout of shivering comes up and remains on his ministrations until it dies down.</p><p>Hours go by and the night deepens around them, darkens into it's latest hour.</p><p>They do all they can.</p><p>It's still not enough.</p><p>Merlin stops breathing that night for the fifth time.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He takes him to the druids come morning.</p><p>The dawn over them paints the sky shades of pastel pink and orange that Morgana wouldn't be caught dead using and still a red, deeper and more vivid, like blood, like what leaks into the many layers of bandages Gaius had wrapped around his chest, until his body looks deformed under his clothes, as if his chest now harboured a strange lump. Arthur takes a moment to feel guilty having fled under the dying cover of the night without a word of explanation to his wife, trusting the Court Physician to tell her what had happened and what he intended. He has sent for Iseldir, the druid from Mora, but he can't risk a ride until Camelot's borders, so Gaius sends him to an old acquaintance, a woman named Salan and her clan. He rides another horse this morning, a gelding he uses to shorter distances, because he took pity on the way Llmarei had been spurn on yesterday and knows he might do it again if he has any cause to panic, which, given his record, he probably will.</p><p>By his left, rides Gwaine, by his right, Elyan, not one amidst the tree of them boasts of chainmail or armour or the red cape with gold embroidery of Camelot's knights, and Arthur can only hopes it looks as much of a peace offer as it truly is, following the hastily drawn map Gaius made him by candlelight and on the lookout out for druids at every moment, that they will take pity on the fact that Merlin is one of theirs when he extends his battered body towards them and asks them to help.him, to heal him. He does not know if it's hope, delusion or if in fact Merlin seems to breath steadier now, but he's burning up with fever, sweating and delirious, and still he complains of feeling cold.</p><p>No mortal man should survive such a wound, Gaius had declared moments after Arthur had coaxed breath back into Merlin's body, and nothing he could do would heal Merlin; and as he had looked to the old man, terrified and misty eyed, Merlin's face pressed against his chest as he rocked back and forth to ease the nervousness with which the dark haired man had clung onto his clothes and muttered about cold, he had given him the final blow: but, maybe, magic would. He feels like his father, a hypocrite, for now that magic is beneficial to him, he rides towards it despite the law he has held on such high regard even if not to full conviction. When father had deemed magic to be enough to grant him an heir, he had gone to Nimueh and he had later paid a bitter price. Now, however, Arthur thinks there's no price expensive enough for him not to pay in order to have Merlin healed and whole and safe. He tries not to think what the price for him will be, hugging him slightly tighter to reassure both of them, and though the hold doesn't do much for him nor did he particularly thought it would, yet Merlin sighs and relaxes into his hold in that distinct manner he would when they were both in bed and he was asleep and Arthur would sneak an arm around his waist to pull him closer, and he would stretch like a pleased cat before curling against his chest, back to Arthur and face sporting a sleepy smile.</p><p>There's no price he wouldn't pay to have a moment like that's again. It was too little of time spent together, <em> finally </em> together, to have him be taken from him.</p><p>He pulls the horse's — <em> Ennisi </em>, he remember being told by the stable hand — reins short when he arrives at the destined clearing, only to be greeted by a young woman, dressed in a robe of old green.</p><p>“I would have never doubted Dairna's Sight, but still.” She says, with a secretive smile as she takes in their small group. “It's a most strange day when the King of Camelot comes to us. What do you seek, Arthur Pendragon?”</p><p>“I seek help.” He replies, dismounting carefully before approaching her, slow and as calmly as he can manage when he can feel Merlin's breath weaken once again against his neck. “We're unarmed, we don't mean ill. My friend—” His voice breaks at the word, and Salan's keen eyes take notice of that, traveling from his face to the bundle of lifeless cloth the man in his arms is being reduced to. “My friend is hurt. Camelot's Physician, Gaius, said you could help.”</p><p>“If Gaius sent you to us, it must be serious.” She concedes, uncrossing his arms before waving him closer. “Bring him closer.”</p><p>Arthur does, stretching his arms slightly so she can see Merlin almost sinking past them, and yet before he could open his lips to explain what has happened and who this was, she sucks in a startled gasp at the sight of Merlin, limo and boneless and sweating and bleeding in his arms.</p><p>“<em> Emrys. </em>” She whispers, amazed and terrified in the same breath, her eyes glowing with admiration. “Follow me.” She instructs, holding onto her skirts and walking towards the end of the clearing, ducking between two trees and into a trail hidden to the unknown eye, taking quick and firm steps towards the camp at the distance, waving a young boy by the end of the trail closer. “Call for Arielill and for Braweine. Tell them the man Dairna saw is Emrys.” The boy's eyes widen, flicking from his cheifetain's face to Merlin's unconscious one, and Arthur tells himself they mean only to help to keep from shielding him from their sight as he had shielded him from the court. The woman wraps her fingers around his arm and urges him with a shake. “Quickly Coinrann!"</p><p>Coinrann runs for his life past the fire burning in the middle of the camp and towards the tent near the rocks, shouting for the healers she had demanded. The whole camp seems to hold its breath, as if something on the air has shifted, and he knows that it's not because they recognise him, because he's too far away for most people to see. <em> ‘Emrys’ </em> , they whisper, worried and reverently and the druids Salan sent for approach them running. Though Salan looks to be young in a way he can't quite figure out how she would be an acquaintance of Gaius', barely a few years older than himself, with dark brown curly hair and tanned skin, eyes like honey and a personality that no doubt was hardened by the horrors she witnessed, Arielill seems to be as ancient as their court physician, face weathered by time and adorned by a crown of white hair, favoring her right leg and leaning onto Braweine, a man tall and built as Percival and with golden hair fairer than Arthur's and a face that reminds him of the drawings of ancient heroes on the dusty books of Greeks legends, to make her way up the hill towards them, fussing over Merlin's unconscious form before waving him instructions with her hands. Mute then, he thinks, remembering of his father retellings that in the beginning they used to give magic users a choice to be divorced from the corrupting evil by severing their tongues so they'd keep their lives; ‘wishful thinking’, Uther had said, ‘magic does not need a tongue to manifest, but at least we tried to be merciful’. He thinks of Merlin, imagines his cheeks hollow and his words stripped from him, his tongue cut from his mouth, all the words that he would never get to say, <em> ‘not the pyre, just not the pyre’ </em>.</p><p>It makes it hard to let Braweine take him from him with that image on his head, but he does, cradling Merlin's body devotedly on his own arms,<em> ‘Emrys’ </em> soft as lover would whisper the name of his other half, and Arthur knows he's safe and he will be cared for and he will be healed, <em> ‘Emrys’ </em> like a prayer, but there's an anxiousness to having him taken from his arms. Every time his breath stopped, Arthur had been there and Merlin had breathed again. He knows it's foolish, but he fears that now he's out of his reach, out of his vicinity even, having to wait with his knights by the fire while druids crowd the healer' tent, working spells and charms and potions and <em> magic </em> over his dying servant, if he stops breathing he will stop altogether.</p><p>It's only when Elyan hands shake his shoulders gently, when his kindly spoken words reach for him and try to talk him into following towards the bonfire where Salan waits for them, that Arthur realises he fell to his knees when Merlin had been taken from him, bowed over himself, holding the flickering hope against his chest, tending to it with warmth and thoughts of how to remediate that hurt and his father's mistakes. He rises to his feet, unsure and weak and realising there is something as fragile inside his chest, a faint string that connects his life to Merlin and that is ready to snap and never be mended again as soon as the other half of it is cut loose. Selen offers him tea when he sits by the log near the fire, other younger druids with probably less powerful magic stick close to each other on the other end of the fire, looking at him as if he was planning their demise over his herbal calming tea, but otherwise treat him and Merlin with utmost reverence and respect. It's weird to see Merlin this appreciated, especially by someone who's not only himself, calling him site and King and referring to Merlin as 'lord Emrys' every time, without fail. He wonders what it would have been like, to have courted Merlin, to have taken him as a consort. Would it be like this? People looking at him and calling him 'sire', looking at Merlin and calling him 'my lord', his value to him evident to all?</p><p>Hour pass in such way, with young druids growing confident enough to offer him honey bread and dried meat and nuts and words of encouragement about Emrys being strong and destiny-bound to him, that be would never desert his side. He nods along, smiles and even lets himself be distracted from the come and going of druids into the tent where Merlin lays by a small child, no older than six, with gaps to her teeth and wild hair and questions about Camelot and knights and ladies and fancy dresses. Elyan talks to her about his sister, the Queen, and she gasps in delight as he gives stories of Gwen and her wisdom and braveness, and Gwaine tells his own tales of a princess he knows, who's a good person even though she's too demanding about drills and overall tougheaded. Something eases in him, and he dares to smile at the girl, and when he raises his face, Salan stands by the fire, looking upon the scene kindly.</p><p>“Brìghde, would you give me a moment with the King and his Sir knights?”, she asks, and Arthur feels apprehension creeps up his body once more.</p><p>Brìghde pouts, visibly displeased at the request.</p><p>“But they were telling me about Princess Arthina! Please, Sal, just a little more!”</p><p>Salan arches a brow at them and Gwaine has the nerve to snicker softly as the child speaks the mock name with such conviction.</p><p>“Go to Marc. I promise you'll have time to talk with them later.”</p><p>They wait for the child to be at a safe distance, dragging her feet in an outwardly displeased manner towards a man surrounded by the children that had deserted the fire at Salan's approach, singing songs and playing with them before Arthur has the courage to break the uneasy silence.</p><p>“How is he?”, he asks tentatively.</p><p>“Lord Emrys is dying.” Salan replies evenly, detachedly, and Arthur ponders of his breath hasn't stopped too, if the string to his heart has not snapped completely. “But he will be fine.”</p><p>“How can someone be dying and be expected to be fine?” Gwaine all but growls the question, enraged by grief and shock and probably the same warring feelings Arthur has in in his chest. He was not a fool, he saw the way he smiled at Merlin, the way his loyalty were always Merlin's first and everyone else's last, how his eyes would linger — he'd be jealous if it wasn't so reading to know his beloved had such an unwavering defender behind him, a person that was completely his, the way Merlin was Arthur's and that Arthur could never be Merlin's. </p><p>“Death is not permanent to Emrys. He is magic, and magic knows nor death, nor age, nor sickness. He will die a couple more deaths before his body will have burnt through the poison and he can be fine once more.”</p><p>“Knows nor death, nor age?" Elyan asks in his stead, brows furrowed in confusion.</p><p>“Lord Emrys is immortal. So dictates the prophecy.”</p><p>Merlin is immortal. Nothing makes sense, the information are fuzzy at the edges, but that, that <em> absurd </em> notion seems so undeniable when she says it. What else would keep him coming back every time his breathing stopped and his heart stilled and life seeped out of him.</p><p>“You… you said that he needs to— to die it out, basically? So you mean, all those times he stopped breathing he…?”</p><p>“Emrys has faced many deaths before these, sire, these are only the first you have come to know of.”</p><p>Arthur's pretty sure he's a breath away from hyperventilating. He had died once in the ground, Arthur above him holding a knife; died thrice more on the back of a horse and on his arms, died once in Gaius' table, died—</p><p>“Has he died any other times since we've arrived?” Arthur forces himself to ask past the lump to his throat.</p><p>The chieftain's eyes are bathed in something akin to pity, or maybe it's compassion, but either way they are heavy with information and with the sight of death.</p><p>“Only twice."</p><p>
  <em> Only twice. </em>
</p><p>Arthur turns to a side and Gwaine is quick to move out of his way before he retches honey cakes and nuts and other things the druids had offered at the thought of Merlin <em> dying twice </em> without him there for him. He used to think Merlin's death would wreck him in ways unfathomable, but now he is confronted with no less than seven of them. He retches more until there's nothing in his stomach left to purge himself out of but for the guilt and the fear. He's been dying, all this time, he was dying. And apparently, these were not the first deaths he faced for Arthur. Was the poisoned goblet even the first? What had he done to keep him safe? What did he keep from him to not weight his conscience?</p><p><em> No mortal man could survive this injuries </em> , Gaius had said. <em> No mortal man. </em></p><p>He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stands up uncaring for the dizziness or for the worry or for his extreme reaction, because there's only one thing he can think and that thing is:</p><p>“Where is he?”</p><p>The chieftain doesn't ask, doesn't hover, doesn't do anything else, merely turns away and leads them to Merlin. Watches stoically when Arthur kneels by him, takes his hand and watches the rise and fall of his chest as if waiting and fearing for it to stop again. She tells him, quietly, it might be best if he takes him somewhere he knows, somewhere he feels safe, explains that every time he wakes from death he is confused and scared. Arthur nods, thankful for an excuse to take him into his arms and away again, and silently they walk their way back to the clearing where their horses are tied, Arthur's chin over Merlin's head and dread in his veins.</p><p>“Won't you come with us?” He asks, going for courteous and ending for pleading. “Help him?”</p><p>“We won't go to Camelot while we're outlawed, Arthur Pendragon. I hope you understand that.” Salan replies, a benevolent smile to her lips as she stands in-between the trees that leads to their camp as Elyan and Gwaine raise Merlin over his horse's back. “Do not fear, he will not leave you, not in this lifetime. You ride back with all of our blessings."</p><p>Arthur understands, it's impossible not to now he has found it on himself to see their perspective without the bigoted views he had grown up with. He nods and thanks her again before turning to Ennisi, climbing on his back, wrapping his arms around Merlin's frame for the hundredth time and paying half a mind to the way Merlin's bouts of shiverings die down as soon as his back rests against the heat of his chest. They ride back to Camelot mere four hours after having left it.</p><p>Gwen is infinitely less benevolent when he comes riding back home the second time around, greeting him in the steps of their castle with cold eyes and her polite smile, and there's a wall of nobles behind her, now fully clothed and keen eyed, like birds of prey looking to get their claws onto a wounded animal, even if they had to wait to pry their target from his arms, where he was safe and warm and just beginning to wake.</p><p>“My love.” She greets, disgustingly sweet in a way that means she means to make pâté of his liver and spread it on some toast later, but that for now only has her walking towards him and kissing his cheek before stealing a worried glance down at Merlin's. “I see you managed to find the healer Gaius suggested you go to.” Her brown eyes raise to him in warning, and he realises Gaius must have told her, the knights must have told her, Gwen <em> knows </em>and she's spent the whole morning he sprinted away weaving a web of red herrings that had Merlin's incident look like something better than it truly is, something that gives less flesh for them to sink claws into, so she rests a caring hand upon his arm, and though she's pissed as hell she's still gentle and warm, and he's still the man she chose to marry and Merlin is still her best friend. “Is he cured from his illness then?”</p><p>“He will be soon.” He says, smiling gallantly at her, but his eyes are reassuring and thankful. “He just needs a little rest.”</p><p>“Then let's have him brought inside.” “My lords, court will resume normally tomorrow morning. We apologize for the disturbance.”</p><p>“I could word it no better than my wife.”</p><p>Gwen smiles at him again, warm just for show and  eyes crinkled with the promise of a painful death, and he refrained from telling her he had quite his number of deaths for the heat, so if she could find another suitable punishment, it would be preferable. The nobles are as fearful of his wife as he is and he respects both their good sense as be respects Guinevere's authority over them, and he and Gwen pretend to take the way to the physician's chambers before they take a detour to Arthur's own chambers, a d Arthur explains shallowly what little be could understand from the whole breath taking revelations that were thrown at him when his worries were the highest and his defense the lowest, and he gently lowers Merlin on his bed about the time he tells her about the fact Salan's words, about the halted breaths being deaths he kept coming back from. Gwen's face is contorted in worry, and while Arthur is standing by the bed, looking at Merlin worriedly, his wife is sat by his side, exuding compassion as she brushes his damp hair from his face.</p><p>“Merlin, a sorcerer” She whispers to herself, letting out a heavy breath before looking up at him with a tired sort of smile. “I get the magical mistress and you get the magical servant, seems only fair.”</p><p>Arthur can't help but to snort at that, and him snorting has her chuckling and, just like that, they are both laughing like younger fools than they have any right being with each other, especially over such a rotten joke. Still, it does wonders for the heaviness on the room, making her eyes lighter with an unmistakable spark of joy and has him fighting to keep any news bouts of booming laughter down his chest, but it's all a special sort of unstoppable given the absurdity of their situation. Two people of magic right under Uther's nose, in his court, for years, living and probably practicing at the heart of the capital that had vowed to hunt down and extinguish every trace of such a vile, corrupting thing. Yet, eventually, the laughter dies, happiness and giddy joy giving way to the the knowledge of what a half-life that could be, and the realisation of the secrets kept and the loneliness one must self-inflict in order to keep their lives; that all too thin line between deceit and self preservation.</p><p>“I wish he felt like he would have told me.” Arthur finally breaks the silence with a whisper, eyes turned in a spot on the wall behind her that's not at particularly interesting yet saves it's purpose to keep him from glancing in either his lover's or wife's face, even with fingers still holding onto the bony wrist gently, index finger monitoring his pulse to lull himself into a state of calm.  “That he felt like he could have trusted me.”</p><p>“He wouldn't.” Gwen voice carries softly  and gentle, and sadder than he had heard her sound in a long time. When he looks up at her, she's looking at Merlin as if she's seeing someone else entirely. “You know what that kind of fear does to a person.”</p><p>If Arthur puts himself to it, he thinks he can see through her eyes. The sad depiction of this moment they're in merging with the tragic events of the past. He can imagine someone in this table, all right, someone just as pale, with hair equally as dark, but longer, dressed in purple fabric, with a kind heart and a gentle soul and yearning for justice. He can think of a gaping void under his left breast, greater still, of a best friend, a woman he had grown up with and admired and dressed and gossiped with and stood by when she had the worst nightmares and watched her toss and turn and become more distant and scared and butter. He can imagine all of that, because he saw it happen to her, so he knows what's she's going to say next and he knows she is right because:</p><p>“At least you haven't lost him.”</p><p><em> Like I lost her </em>.</p><p>There's secrets in every wall of Camelot z hidden deep in-between the stones, there are truths that were never acknowledged and, as such, left to foster deep into the makings of the place and in the minds and hearts of better men and women than they could drsm to be. Frankly, the unsaid words in this room could suffocate them if they acknowledged them all. Guinevere takes another deep breath, caressing Merlin's forehead one last time before turning to leave.</p><p>“Let me walk you to your room?” He asks, a small attempt to reach out when she has chosen to share some of her pain, to at least not allow her to walk away with a freshly open wound.</p><p>She turns to him, confused at first, before smiling despite herself, arching a brow, but not making any indication to leave without his company.</p><p>“My room is quite literally down the hall.”</p><p>“Haven't you heard?” He replies secretively, offering her his arm. “I'm a terrific gentleman.”</p><p>Gwen rolls her eyes in a way that he knows means she's thinking of all the many instances of his, as Merlin would put it, prattiness and how wonderful gentlemanly he had been then. He leaves him sleeping on the bed and walks through the door, arm in hers, setting for the walk to her room. It's precisely 19 steps from his; he knows, because he has counted them time and time again in this waltz of theirs, and Guinevere squeezes his arm when they stand in front of her door.</p><p>“Take good care of him.” She whispers, moving to kiss his cheek like she means it, now that's no one around to play up affection for, and he closes his eyes and feels ready to burst, because gods, he loves her. Not in the way he loves Merlin, but in the way he loves Gwen, and that's a way precious in it's own. “You have both been through a lot.”</p><p>She has snuck inside her room and closed the door behind her before he can even open her eyes, so, when he does, there's a new sort of pain to his chest that he can't quite figure out. He stands in a hallway with two people he loves at each extremity and he feels so selfish for daring to have them both, for knowing now that they're hurting even when they only give him smiles. Arthur turns towards his own room again, feeling half dead in a way. He's 13 steps back into his 19-steps' length when there's the sound of something — or most likely, someone — falling to the ground and a pained groan.</p><p>“Arthur?” Merlin's voice screams, and the King sprints to open the door only to find him crumpled to the ground, holding onto bedsheets and bed alike to stand up again, glistening with sweat, highly delirious and burning and shivering and his magic replies in kind, frightened and panicked and the room shakes as he tries to sit up, as he claws the bedsheets for support, looking wildly around as if he can't fathom where else he might be if not in his bed, if not in his room. “Arthur?!"</p><p>“I'm here, Merlin.” The king calls back, stepping towards the bed, hands outstretched to catch him if he was to fall, and blue eyes meet blue eyes, and Merlin seems to calm somewhat, tries stumbling towards him, still leaning against the bedpost but Arthur is quicker, walking towards him, a hand sneaking to rest in his nape, pulling his face against his own shoulder and holding him as tightly as he is allowed, kissing the skin behind his ear as he whispers. “I'm here."</p><p>Merlin whimpers in relief and moves to cling onto him like life depended on it — not his, of course, he'd never care about his own life, but <em> Arthur's </em> on the other hand — as if there were monsters to keep him safe from and keeps holding onto him, whispering words about dangers and that they need to leave and the sweetest of words and concessions that Arthur wishes were made of sound mind, breathing like a scared cornered animal until he starts to choke as his throat constricts and airflow is blocked and he starts to suffocate slowly and dies for the eighth time, still holding onto Arthur even when strength grows scarce and life goes scarcer, taking a piece of Arthur's broken heart with him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Small blessings: there's no ninth time.</p><p>When Merlin wakes up again, he's curled against Arthur, and Arthur has not slept as he held vigil over him. His eyes are milky and blurred with confusions and exhaustion, but his breathing is full and healthy and deep and when he tilts his face towards Arthur, he smiles weakly but brightly, like the first rays of sunshine to raise over a long storm that still leaves some gray smudged at the edges of the sky as it subsides.</p><p>Arthur had no idea how long he had been holding his breath for, but he knows the moment it becomes easier to breathe again: it's the moment he smiles, that he tries to shift towards him and the moment Arthur understands he won't be taken from him another time, that he's back and his and that he now knows him completely, magic and all.</p><p>"You had me terrified.” He whispers against red lips, parting from the kiss he had pressed on him, hungry and passionate and overjoyed beyond words. “I thought I would lose you. Never do that again. Promise me"</p><p>Melrin smiles turns tearful, cupping his cheek and rising his face to lean his forehead against Arthur's, nuzzling the side of his face affectionately.</p><p>"I love you too, clotpole"</p><p>Arthur does not miss that he didn't promise.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>It hadn't sunk fully before, but now it does: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Merlin is immortal</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He almost smiles, </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Everyone in the room is too serious, their expressions to somber, and Arthur matches them in their seriousness, even though giddy happiness that he won't ever have to see him die takes over him, spreads like wildfire, under his skin, fortifies the string to his chest that won't ever have to break, because after eight deaths and three nights if absolute hell and torture for </span>
  <em>
    <span>he won't ever have to lose him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That suffocating fear, the terrible anxiety, how he had held him through halting breaths and fadings of his spirit, it's hard not to smile to know that won't happen, that Merlin will never truly be torn of his arms if only he protects him better, and he will, he won't ever let him be hurt again, never let him be harmed, and then Gwen, always the wisest and most sensible amidst the two if them catches up to the meaning of what the news must mean to Merlin sooner than the others, brings a hand to her lips and turns to him as if she wishes she could have changed that fate and lets a heartbroken:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Merlin…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Merlin gets up solemnly, back straight and shoulders drawn up and imperative eyes that leave no room for doubts or questions, and Arthur thinks ‘that must be what Emrys looks like’, finds himself ready to concede any point he might state. Instead, Merlin says in a low even voice that he needs a moment and before any can reach for him or talk to him, he turns and leaves. Gwen, already an emotional wreck, promptly starts to cry and, to his horror, always collected Gaius follows her lead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't understand. How can she be sad? Why is Gaius holding onto her and she holding onto him back as they comiserate over a pain that they have no reason to feel? Merlin will never die, will never age, will never be taken from them. They are all shaken by what happened, true, but if they all work together, he will never have to go through that again. They can keep him safe for the rest of their lives, and they can keep him for the rest of their lives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the realisation comes, cold and heavy as a stone in his stomach: Merlin will live forever, they know that to be a fact. Arthur, however, will not. Neither will Gaius, nor Gwen, nor Gwaine, nor Elyan, nor Hunnith, nor Percival, nor Leon, nor the cook, nor Hannah from the laundries, not the guards, nor the baker, not the tradesman Merlin likes to buy his tea from, nor Salan, nor Arielill, nor Braweine, nor Coinrann, nor Dairna, nor Brìghde, nor Llmarei, nor Ennisi, nor Iseldir. They will all keep him for the rest of their lives, but he won't keep them. His life is stretched unnaturally by their Destiny, he is cursed to live through centuries and wars and decades of lives and deaths until Arthur comes back, </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>Arthur comes back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won't ever have to lose him truly, but Merlin will lose all the people in this room, all the people in this city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His joy dies down into grief, in the way that Merlin's life will never do into a proper death.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i am so very sorry, I can no longer work on my WIPS, the Merthur is just stringing me along</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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